


Pressure Points

by thepurplewombat



Series: Under Pressure [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arson, Blackmail, CAM is slime, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort without the Comfort, M/M, Magnussen's smell is as foul as his heart, Manipulation, Non-consensual sex, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Whump, There is some Sherlock/Mycroft but neither of them want there to be, There will be a comfort sequel, Virgin Sherlock, also some John/Sherlock, alternate Appledore scene, but they didn't want it to be like this, i promise there will be a comfort sequel, if it's fun to read I've done it wrong, mentions of platonic Sherlock/Janine, non-consensual sibling incest, this is horror not porn, this was not fun to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 00:38:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10425372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepurplewombat/pseuds/thepurplewombat
Summary: Both Sherlock and Mycroft thought that Magnussen wanted Sherlock in order to get at Mycroft. Neither of them ever considered that Magnussen wanted Mycroft in order to get at Sherlock.The choice is simple, submit to Magnussen's demands, or watch as Magnussen brings the lives of the two people Sherlock loves best down around their ears.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I made the mistake of watching the CAM deleted scene the other day, and my mind went some very dark places. The implications of 'the dampness of my touch' and 'you'll get used to it' are horrifying, and I just couldn't stop thinking about it. I had nightmares about it. Eventually I realised that I would have to do what I always do when I can't stop thinking about something - I'd have to write it.
> 
> I thought I could write something short with a sort of happy ending, but in the end I realised that I wasn't going to be able to stop until I'd written it all. And here we are, eleven thousand words later. I'm working on the comfort sequel right now.
> 
> Please don't read this if you think it might cause you harm in any way.

The moment the doors open onto the white, white room, I know that something has gone terribly wrong. I’m not sure what exactly, not yet, but the sense of impending disaster is choking me. And then there’s the explanation of Magnussen’s Mind Palace, and the horror is enfolding me now, so thick it’s choking.

Eventually I come back to myself and I see that Magnussen and John are standing on the porch.

“Bring your face over here,” Magnussen says.

I watch. I watch, helpless, as Magnussen’s thick hard fingers flick John’s face. Magnussen is saying something, but I can’t quite process it, not over the rushing sound in my ears.

“Let him,” I say, when John says my name, asking for help, asking for another miracle, but I’m lost, I’ve never been _this wrong_ before, and I can’t say anything but “I’m sorry, just…let him.”

Magnussen is saying something now about Janine, and I’d probably think it was important, if I could think at all, but all I can think about is that I have delivered John into the hands of a monster, and I don’t know what will happen next.

What happens next is that a single helicopter lands on the grass, and Mycroft steps out. I can see immediately from the set of his shoulders that something has gone wrong there too. We’d had a plan, of sorts. The team, the shot. Serbia. I’d spent some time with video editing software, and Mycroft had called in a few favours, but all that has clearly gone up in smoke. Where’s the team? Where are the snipers? The helicopter takes off again and Mycroft joins us on the porch. We watch the helicopter fly away in silence.

The silence is eventually broken by Magnussen’s hands coming together, a clap that startles me more than it should.

“Well,” Magnussen says. “Let’s go inside.”

We follow him without words. I catch Mycroft’s eye and he turns both hands an inch, palms-out, a silent gesture of helplessness. There will be no help for us, not here. Not tonight.

Magnussen sits on the white couch and we stand in front of him, all in a row, Mycroft, then me, then John. The victims of my stupidity, laid out before Magnussen like an offering.

“Whatever you want,” Mycroft says abruptly, and I remember _pressure point_. “If you let my brother go I will give you anything within my power.”

Magnussen laughs, a dark little chuckle, and laces his fingers on his knee.

“I am afraid I’ve brought you here under false pretences, Mycroft,” he says with a little smile. “You see, you thought that I wanted to get at your brother to get to you, when it was really quite the other way around.”

Mycroft sucks in a harsh breath. I don’t. I think I may be going into shock. My mind is racing out of control, but I can’t say I have any concrete thoughts. My hands are numb, but I can see them shaking. The rush of enlightenment, when it comes, is sickening. I make a strange and broken noise as it hits, and I am afraid that I may vomit.

“What?” John says, and clears his throat. “What d’you mean by that?”

“Ah, Doctor Watson. Always stumbling around after the point. Explain it to him, would you, Mister Holmes?”

I shake my head, but he keeps staring at me with his shark-eyes.

“Go on. I’m sure you’ve deduced it by now.”

“He wants to…” I can’t say it. _Can’t_ say it. There’s a memory in my head that wasn’t there before, Magnussen in my hospital room. _The dampness of my touch_. _You’ll get used to it_. I remember that I thought he was going to kiss me. I remember the heart monitor went wild. He kissed my knuckles and I remember that the moment I could move I scrubbed my hand, scrubbed and scrubbed until it was raw, and I could still feel his touch on my skin. Why didn’t I remember this before? Stupid, _stupid_ , if I’d known I would never have come here. I cast frantic eyes in Mycroft’s direction. He is as horror-struck as I am, wide-eyed and pale-faced.

“Oh, yes,” Magnussen says. Still smiling, will he never _stop bloody smiling_? “For months now, I have had my eye upon you, Mister Holmes. And I have laid my plans so carefully, and here we are.” He gestures to Mycroft and John. “Here is your brother, Mister Holmes. I have the information to ruin his career – to put him on trial for treason. I have, in fact, the means to destroy him. And here,” a languid gesture at John. “Here we have John Watson. Your dear doctor. One phone call is all it would take in his case. One phone call, and his pretty little life comes tumbling down.”

Oh, he has been clever. Some part of me – the part of me that isn’t screaming, and it isn’t very big – can actually admire his cleverness. He knows me well, Magnussen, knows that if it was either of them I could have refused, could have saved myself, but both? John, alone and broken again, and Mycroft in a prison somewhere, slowly going mad as his life’s work crumbles to dust, all his secrets exposed for the world to leer at? Either of those I could have borne, if the alternative was this, but both? No. I will not allow it.

“Take off your coat, Mister Holmes,” Magnussen says, and I shudder. My mind is racing, I’m a rat in a maze and there’s no way out. I can’t think, can’t _think_ , can’t see any way out of what’s coming, not one that doesn’t cost me everything anyway. I can do this, and lose John, or I can refuse, and destroy him and Mycroft both – and with Mycroft, there goes the security of the nation. If I needed more convincing, all I have to do is imagine England without a Holmes at the helm. I may not be a patriot, but I do love my country, love London and Baker Street and the old family home, and Mycroft is what keeps that safe. Mycroft is _necessary._ So I raise my shaking hands to the knot of the scarf at my neck, and John moves so quickly I can barely process it, but he has the gun out and pointed at Magnussen.

“No,” he says, and he _can’t_ , he can’t do this, I can’t allow him to do this, so I put myself between Magnussen and the gun, shivering hands held out to John pleadingly.

“No, John,” I say. “You can’t. He’ll have…he’ll have measures in place. Dead man’s switches, if you kill him the information goes public, he’s not _stupid_ , John!” And there’s something wrong with that statement, something off, but my mind is battering itself to bits and I can’t think properly, all I know is that whatever happens, I have to protect John and Mycroft.

John’s face is flat and blank, and the gun doesn’t move a millimetre. I can feel Magnussen’s blank gaze on my back, and it makes my skin crawl.

“I don’t care, Sherlock,” he says. He doesn’t look at me. “I can’t – I won’t allow this.”

“John, think of Mary,” I plead, and his eyes flicker, his brows drawing together in a frown. “Think of the baby.” It’s not working, he’s not listening, and I’d be flattered except that he’s about to ruin his life over me and I can’t allow that. Not again. “Think of Mycroft, John. Think about the things he knows, the things he does. Do you know what would happen to the world without him?”

He scoffs.

“Oh, and now you want me to believe that you care about Queen and country, Sherlock?” he asks. But his hand is starting to shake, and some of that awful determination is fading from his face.

“I don’t,” I say, “but you do. Please, John, I’m so sorry, but there’s no other way.” I take a small step closer and wrap my hand around the gun. “I can’t let him hurt you.”

He meets my eyes and the pain there is devastating, and vast, and threatens to swallow me whole. I raise a hand to his cheek and his eyes close.

“Besides,” I say, and I try for a laugh but it sticks in my throat and I choke on it. “It’s only transport, right?”

“God, Sherlock,” he says, and for a moment I think he might cry, but he sucks in a breath and nods. I put the gun in my pocket and raise my hands to the scarf again, looking at John. I memorise the look in his eyes, place it on a pedestal in my mind palace. I can’t imagine what will be in his eyes when he looks at me…after, but for now his eyes are swimming with tears and there’s something there that could almost be mistaken for love, and I hold that close to me, warming me. If he can never look at me again without seeing what I am about to do, then at least I will have had this moment.

I drop scarf and coat to the floor and turn back to face Magnussen, who has one finger resting on his bottom lip.

“You will find scissors in the drawer over there,” he tells Mycroft. “Fetch them for me, please.”

There’s nothing of my brother’s usual grace as he moves to fetch the scissors. Mycroft moves like a machine, a machine with something broken. I can see his mind racing, looking for an angle, looking for escape, but I don’t think he’ll be able to find one. Mycroft is built for intricacy, for long-term plans and delicate machinations of power. He thinks deeply, but not quickly, and fieldwork has never been his forte. Oh, give him a day or a few hours, and he’d have us out of this – Magnussen’s life is worth nothing once this is over. But now, in this moment? Mycroft is as lost as I am.

“Pass one set to Doctor Watson,” Magnussen says. “Then cut off his clothes.”

Oh, god. John stares at the scissors in Mycroft’s hand, and takes them as though in a dream. Mycroft comes around in front of me, and our eyes lock. We’ve always been able to speak without words, Mycroft and I, able to read each other like the pages of well-worn and familiar books. _You don’t have to do this,_ his eyes say. _There must be another way._

 _There isn’t_ , I say back, and his shoulders sag in defeat. He lifts the scissors to my neck, tucks them into the collar. The crunch of material being cut is loud in a silence broken only by my quick-fast breaths. I’m going to hyperventilate if I don’t get control of that, but control is gone, fled in tatters at the first cut to my shirt. I feel myself flayed open as Mycroft slits my shirt from shoulder to wrist. He puts his hand on my bare shoulder, clenching so tight it hurts, and rests his head against the side of my face.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” he murmurs, and it’s barely a breath against my skin. I find his other hand and clench it in mine. _It’s not your fault_ , I say. And it’s not even a lie. Mycroft had warned me about Magnussen, and it was my own stupidity and arrogance that led us to this.

“Go on, Doctor Watson,” Magnussen says, and I find my voice again.

“Please,” I say. “Don’t make him-“

It’s useless, as I know it was. There will be no mercy here tonight, not in the smallest measure. John takes a deep breath and steps closer, closer than he’s been to me in months, and I shiver. By the time he has slit my shirt and it falls away, leaving me bare above the waist, I’m shaking like a leaf. I wonder how the Woman did it, wrapped herself in her nakedness like it was a cloak, like armour. I don’t know how to do that, and I am shaking.

“His belt,” Magnussen murmurs, and Mycroft’s hands go to the buckle. They’re shaking, just a little. It’s a little gratifying to see that I’m not the only one who’s scared. “And now, if you would…”

John is whispering something under his breath as he and Mycroft kneel at my feet. Maybe he’s praying. Why not, if it helps? Although I doubt God is here tonight. I put my hand on John’s shoulder as they take off my shoes, and then I stand up straight as they cut my trousers off me. I am naked before Magnussen and my mind is empty, ringing like the echoes of a struck bell. I fix my eyes on the middle distance. _Just transport_ , I remind myself, but there is a breeze, and it’s cold, and I am still shaking. I reach and reach for the doors of my mind palace but this is too real, too immediate, and I can’t separate myself from the transport. I learned that in Serbia. _There is a kind of strength_ , my grandmother Vernet murmurs in the back of my mind, _in enduring the unendurable. Afterwards, you are either broken, or you are invincible._ The numbers on her arm are crisp and clear in my mind’s eye, and I take a deep breath. If she could endure _that_ , then I can endure this.

Magnussen lounges on the couch, his eyes tracing up and down my naked body. I am cold everywhere they touch me, and they touch me everywhere.

“Come over here, Mister Holmes,” he says. I feel awkward and graceless as I walk over to him, until I’m standing in front of him. He tilts his head back to look up at me, and puts his hands on my hips. They are cold, and they are damp, and I can’t suppress a shudder of revulsion. “Closer,” he murmurs, and pulls at me gently. I find myself on his lap, my knees on either side of his thighs, and I am forced to put my hands on the back of the couch to catch my balance. We are of a height like this, and his face is so close to mine that I can see the striations of colour in his irises. His breath is rank, vile, a rotten stench in my face as he breathes. He takes one cold hand from my hip and reaches for my arm, brings my hand down to hover in the air between us.

I curl my hand into a fist, and he looks at me chidingly.

“It would be a pity if I had to release that information after all, wouldn’t it, Mister Holmes?” he asks, and I force my hand to relax. He takes my middle finger into his mouth. It’s damp and hot, and he swirls his tongue around the digit as though it’s something delicious. His eyes are still locked on mine, and he smiles as he releases my finger with an obscene wet popping sound. “Mmm,” he says, and licks his lip as though to get at the last morsel of my taste. His thumb holds my limp fingers out of the way and he kisses my palm, whiskery face against my lifeline. I close my eyes as he moves to kiss the tender inside of my wrist. I’m drowning.

He parts his legs, and gravity forces me down into his lap, and for the first time in my life I feel another man’s erect penis against my body. It feels like an iron bar, pressing at his trousers, digging into my thigh. I force myself to relax as he puts my hand down carefully on his shoulder. I don’t want to be touching him. His hand goes back to my waist and he smiles up at me. It reminds me of Moriarty, a kindly smile under dead, dead eyes.

“Move for me a little,” he says. I’m not sure what he wants me to do. I find myself almost grateful for the pressure of his hands, showing me what to do, rocking me back and forth on his lap. He shifts me around a little, until the hard bulge is pressing in under my testicles, and moves me again, gently back and forth. I think that in another situation, with someone else ( _John_ ) this might be almost unbearably erotic. Here and now and with him, I am cold, and scared, and I want nothing more than for this to end, for this not to be happening. Still, I move my hips the way he showed me, holding onto him and the couch for balance. The hand on his shoulder is relaxed. The hand on the back of the couch is clenched in a white-knuckled fist and I can’t seem to relax it. “There we go,” he says. “Open your mouth, Mister Holmes.” I do. I open my mouth and stare over his head as I rock to and fro on his lap, letting my eyes unfocus. I am not looking at anything. I am not here. None of this is real.

One hand stays on my waist, thumb rubbing small damp (disgusting) circles on the curve of my hip. The other comes up to my mouth. A long index finger strokes across my bottom lip before slipping inside.

“He is rather lovely, isn’t he?” Magnussen says, running his fingertip around the inside of my lip. “Tell me honestly, Mycroft. Have you ever thought of doing this to him?”

I wish he wouldn’t remind me of my audience, but at least I can’t see them, can’t see my brother’s face or the look in John’s eyes. _I’m doing this for you_ , I think. _Please don’t hate me._

“No,” Mycroft says. Magnussen laughs softly, and the movement presses him harder against me for a moment. His finger slides deeper into my mouth, and he strokes my tongue, his finger thick and revolting in my mouth. He tastes metallic and sour, and he is leaving tracks on me, slime trails wherever he touches. I can feel his touch even where his hands aren’t anymore, a print on my hip, an iron band around my wrist. I’m so cold.

“Your brother is an unexpectedly bad liar, Mister Holmes,” he tells me. His finger is moving back and forth on my tongue, an echo of the rhythm he is setting with my hips. “Go on then,” he says. “Suck on it.” His words shock me out of the trance I’ve begun to build, and my eyes flicker down at him. I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to be here. “Go on, Mister Holmes,” he says, and I close my lips around his thick finger and hollow my cheeks.

“I imagine he was lovely as a boy,” Magnussen says to Mycroft. “All those long limbs and this rather marvellous mouth. Oh, yes. Delectable. Use your tongue now,” he tells me. I swirl my tongue around his fingertip and he makes a pleased sort of sound and presses his penis against me harder. “Ah, there,” he says.

He takes his finger away and I let my mouth fall open, not sure if I am allowed to close it now. Magnussen runs his finger, wet with my spit, along my torso. I make a high, shocked sound as he pinches my nipple. It hurts, but it doesn’t hurt, and I don’t know what’s happening. His mouth goes to my other nipple and I shudder and pull away from him.

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at me with flat, dead eyes, until I put my hands back where they were and close my eyes. He licks and sucks and nibbles, and torments me with his other hand. I’m making strange little sounds in the back of my throat and no matter how badly I try, I can’t keep silent. If he keeps doing that I’m going to throw up.

He stops, and I’m grateful for that. It feels like a mercy, but I can feel him smile against my chest and I know it’s anything but. He looks up.

“Now, kiss me,” he says, and I take a deep, shivering breath. I can do this. I’ve done it before, traded sweet chaste kisses with Janine, huddling with her under the covers of my bed like scared children, our shared fear of Magnussen an invisible third party. She slept in my bed when she was afraid ( _Janine is always afraid, it hangs around her like a choking fog, and if I could love a woman I’d love Janine, whose courage could move mountains)_ , and we held each other until the fear passed, like children, huddling together for comfort. I wish Janine was here. She’s been where I am now, she’d be able to help me through. I lean down and put my mouth against his.

It’s not like Janine at all, nothing like the closed-mouth comfort we’d shared in the darkness, trading secrets back and forth. He pries open my mouth with his tongue, both hands tangle in my hair, and he’s _in my mouth_ , his foul breath and his thick, slick tongue. There is no way to separate myself from this. I don’t kiss him back, wouldn’t know what to do if I tried, but he doesn’t care as long as I keep my mouth open and let him do what he wants. I can’t breathe. He’s plundering my mouth, his tongue stroking against mine, and now he has one arm around my waist, pulling me against him, and the other is clenched in my hair, keeping my head still. I’m fighting my body, fighting to stay limp, not to scramble off his lap and run. I imagine it must look strange from an outside perspective, the way I twitch and shudder as I batter myself into submission. _Just let him_.

He shoves me, and for a moment I hang in the air before I tumble to the floor, landing sprawled at his feet.

I can hear John breathing harshly behind me somewhere, but I can’t hear Mycroft at all. I know what I’d see if I looked at him though. Mycroft has always had superb control of his emotions. I hope he’s doing better than me.

“On your knees, Mister Holmes,” Magnussen says. I pick myself up from the floor and get on my knees. The floor is icy under my knees.

“Jesus,” John says somewhere behind me. I beg him to be quiet, not to say anything more. This will be so much easier if I can just forget he’s there. “You sick bastard.” There are the sounds of a scuffle behind me and I can’t bear to look, but I know what has happened. I can see it as if I were looking at it, John struggling, Mycroft holding him back. “Please don’t do this,” John is pleading. “I’ll do anything, please just, just stop.”

Magnussen laughs at him.

“Oh, Doctor Watson. What could you possibly have that I want? Except, of course,” he leans forward and traces his fingers over my lips, “this?”

He clenches his hand in my hair and leans back again, and I’m forced to shuffle closer again until I’m in between his parted knees, staring at the bulge in his trousers. He uses his grip on my hair to bring my face down, to rub my face against his penis through the material of his trousers.

“Open them,” he says.

My eyes flash open and I stare up at him. _Oh_. It’s not that I don’t know what he wants. It’s more that I’ve never considered the concept in relation to me, never thought it was something someone might want from me. Except…but no. I’m not thinking about that. Not here and not now, and probably never again. He raises his eyebrows at me.

I raise my shaking hands and fumble with the button of his trousers. The zip is easier, and I fold the edges away, freeing his penis. It’s larger than I expected. I could probably fit my hand around it if I tried, but then, I have long fingers.

“Go on, then,” he says, and I look up at him. “Oh, come on, Mister Holmes. Don’t tell me you never traded that lovely mouth for something, back in your junkie days? A few minutes in an alley somewhere in exchange for a high?”

I close my eyes and shake my head and now, of all times, I find myself blushing. Behind me, John chokes out an _oh, God_. I wonder, would this be less awful if I could have said yes? Would it have been less of a horror if, once upon a time, I’d sold my mouth in a back alley for a hit of cocaine? John probably thinks so, but I am at a loss to think of a single thing that would make the horror of this one bit less.

Magnussen is laughing at me. “Well, it’s not exactly hard. I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” he says, and draws my face down. I open my mouth and let him push it inside. It’s huge, and stretches my mouth obscenely. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I put them on his thighs and try to ignore the way I can feel his muscles bunching under my fingers as he moves in my mouth. I don’t have words for what he tastes and smells like, but it turns my stomach, and once again I’m fighting myself. I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to do this.

Fortunately, I don’t have to do much but hold on, because he has a firm two-handed grip on my head, and he’s shoving me back and forth. All I have to do is relax and _let him_ , keep my mouth open and let him do what he wants. I’m just starting to think that this isn’t nearly as bad as I expected when he thrusts in hard, the head of his penis hitting the back of my throat, and I’m choking and trying to pull back. I can’t pull back and I can’t breathe, and my entire body convulses until he pulls back a bit, just enough to let me suck in half a breath, before pushing back in. My hands are moving and I’ve shoved myself back, landing half on my back. One of my elbows has hit the ground, hard and the pain centres me, dispels some of the panic. Not enough to keep me from doing a backwards crab-scuttle, away from Magnussen and his slimy hands and what he wants me to do.

“I can’t,” I say, and my voice is hoarse. “I can’t please, I’m sorry, I can’t-“

Magnussen holds up a slim white rectangle – a phone. I freeze.

“One message, Mister Holmes,” he says. “And the world will know everything.”

Oh god. I look behind me. Mycroft and John are on their knees, Mycroft’s arms wrapped around John, and I’m not sure whether it’s comfort or restraint, but I do know that I would give absolutely anything to be able to go to Mycroft right now, to be able to wrap myself up in the scent of wool and tobacco and _home_ , and pretend that my big brother can chase the monsters away. But this is one monster Mycroft can’t banish by swinging a poker about under my bed. This is on me. I brought us here, and I’ll bring us through.

Magnussen is regarding me with amusement, one eyebrow raised, a smirk hovering in the corners of his mouth.

“Perhaps you would like to call a friend?” he suggests. “I’m sure Doctor Watson or your brother will be able to help you. What do you think, Mister Holmes? Should I call one of them over here to hold your hand?”

 _No_. God, no. I shake my head mutely and force myself to crawl to him again. I place my hands back on his thighs and bow my head to take him in my mouth again. His hands come back to my hair and he moves again, slowly at first and then more quickly. My breath sounds loud in my head, and I’m making strange sounds. Am I crying? I think I might be crying. I can’t catch my breath. His hands are hard on my head, pushing me down onto himself even as he thrusts into my mouth with his hips. He hits the back of my throat again and again, and I’m choking and my body is revolting against this intrusion. I’m fighting myself again, and although my body shakes and shudders, leaping about like a fish on a hook, I manage to keep my head where he wants it, my useless hands fluttering against him. I don’t dare push him away again but I can’t _breathe_ around his cock in my throat and everything takes on the sparkle-edged clarity of anoxia and then, suddenly, my mouth is empty. I’m terrified for a moment – did I push myself away? What did I do? – but his hands are still clenched painfully in my hair and he’s coming, shooting great wads of noxious semen over my face and neck with a deep, shuddering groan.

When he lets go of my hair, I fall to the ground, limp as a marionette with cut strings, heaving for breath. I don’t seem to have the energy to open my eyes all the way, and my head is spinning from lack of oxygen, but there’s nothing wrong with my ears.

“You’ve got what you wanted,” Mycroft says, and I can hear the cracks in his voice, although nobody else would. “Can we go?”

Magnussen laughs.

“Oh, Mycroft, what on earth gave you that idea? I’m nowhere near done with your brother. Bring him into the bedroom when he can move again.” I hear his footsteps, crisp expensive footwear, fading away, but I can’t quite move. Not yet.

A moment later there are gentle hands on me and Mycroft is gathering me close, holding me against his chest and touching my face with a shaking hand. John appears in front of me, holding my torn shirt. He’s wiping my face, cleaning Magnussen off me, but I’m still covered in the man. He’s on my skin and in my mouth and in my hair, and every breath I take tastes of him. It’s still nice, though. John’s hands are gentle. It’s nice.

“It’s not over yet, is it?” I ask, letting my eyes close, letting myself believe for a moment that I’m safe. Mycroft surrounds me, smell of comfort and home, and John is there, and I can do this.

“No, brother mine,” Mycroft whispers. He sounds as broken as I do. “It’s not.”

I pry my eyes open, look at John. He looks old, and sad. I reach out with a shaking hand and trace the lines on his forehead.

“I’m sorry, John,” I murmur, and he begins to cry. His arms go around me and John’s face is buried in my neck and he’s shaking, his tears dripping on my skin.

“Don’t apologize, Sherlock, please,” he says. “You are…you’re being so brave, Sherlock, I can’t imagine, so brave.” He goes on along that line for a while, but I ignore his words. I’m drinking in the feeling of his body against mine, because I can’t imagine that he will ever want to touch me once this is over. He’s emotional right now, but soon he will remember that I’m tainted now, that I’ve got Magnussen all over me, and then I’ll lose this.

Eventually, John stops crying, and Mycroft kisses my forehead, and between them they get me to my feet. My legs are numb from kneeling on the hard floor, and I’m clumsy and weak. My feet drag behind us as we move in the direction of the bedroom.

“We could run,” John suggests, but I shake my head. There’s nowhere to run, and what if there was? There would still be Magnussen’s information, and then what would all of this have been for? My thoughts are vague and disjointed, and something is bothering me about that thought, but it doesn’t want to come together and I can’t focus enough to force it.

“John, please,” I say. “I…you’re making it.” I’m not sure what I’m trying to say. I sound pathetic to myself, my voice shaking and hoarse. “You’re making it very hard to be brave right now. Please. I’m sorry, but could you…”

John sucks in a harsh breath.

“God, Sherlock, I’m sorry. I’ll…I’ll shut up.”

“Thank you.”

By the time we reach the bedroom, I’ve found my feet again. I think I’m finally beginning to understand what grand-mere had meant. There’s a dignity to be found, in facing things on your own two feet.

Magnussen is sitting on the side of the bed, placidly waiting for us. He smiles as I step into the room.

“Ah, very good,” he says. “Now, Mycroft, I want you to sit with your back against the headboard, like so,” he explains. Mycroft toes off his shoes and goes, obedient, sitting up against the headboard. Magnussen takes me by the arm and arranges me himself, sprawled in Mycroft’s lap with my legs over his, spread out and exposed. He strokes over my sides, my arms, even weighs my limp penis in his hand. I am covered in him. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, and leans down to kiss me again. My entire body goes rigid as his foul tongue plunders my mouth, and Mycroft’s hands clench on my biceps. Magnussen probably didn’t think this would be a comfort, but it is – Mycroft and I have always been stronger together.

After a while he leaves off and kneels between my legs. He’s starting to get hard again.

“Doctor Watson,” he calls over his shoulder. “Come over here, please.”

John, who has been hovering near the door, comes to the bed.

“Would you like to prepare Sherlock to receive me?” Magnussen asks, in exactly the same tone of voice you’d offer a drink, or a cup of tea. John’s eyes go wide and all the colour drains from his face.

“No!” I snap. “Leave – leave John out of this. I said I’d do what you want, but leave John alone!”

He makes a little moue of disappointment, but his eyes glitter, and I know that he knew I’d say that.

“Ah, well. I suppose I’ll have to take you as you are, then. Brace yourself, Mister Holmes,” he says and leans forward, stroking himself. “This is going to hurt.”

John’s hand shoots out, and John has him by the upper arm. He has strong hands, and Magnussen freezes.

“No,” John says. “You’ll…you’ll tear him.”

Magnussen shrugs delicately.

“Things will moisten up eventually,” he says. “Admittedly, blood is not the most effective lubricant, but needs must, after all.”

John is gritting his teeth, and I can see the effort it takes for him not to actually attack Magnussen right there.

“Jesus,” he says. “No. I’ll do it. Get out of my way.”

“No,” I say. I don’t want John’s hands on me, not here. Any other time, any other place but this one. “No, John, please. Please don’t.”

“Sherlock,” John says, and his eyes are gentle but his mouth is hard. “I have to, okay? If I don’t…Sherlock, it’s going to hurt even if I do, but if I _don’t_ …”

“What about Mycroft?” I ask desperately. “Mycroft can do it!”

“I’m afraid your brother is occupied, Mister Holmes. It’s Doctor Watson or nothing,” Magnussen says mildly, and I sag in defeat. I was stupid, I guess, to think I could come out of this with anything to call my own, even something as small as this – as John’s touch untainted by this.

Mycroft’s hands are sure and strong on my biceps, and I can hear his heartbeat, if I concentrate, so I do.

“Okay,” I say. “Okay.” I sound utterly defeated, and Magnussen smiles and moves to the side, allowing John to situate himself between my thighs.

“Do you have anything…” John starts, and Magnussen’s smirk is immediate, cruelly delighted.

“I seem to have neglected to purchase any,” he says, and inspects his nails. “What a terrible pity.”

John’s breath hisses out in a curse but Mycroft is fumbling in his pocket and produces a tub of Vaseline. I remember when we were small, and his hands cracked and bled in winter until Mummy came home with a tub of Vaseline and spent hours and hours rubbing it into his sore, red hands. He’s as attached to that as to his damn brolly. I let myself remember for a little while, sort of drifting. Everything is blank, and my mind is empty, and whatever is going to happen is going to happen. I am drifting away, and it’s almost as though I’m floating.

“It’s not ideal,” Mycroft says above me. “But it should help.”

John nods and takes the tub, placing it carefully on the bed. Then he grips my hips right where Magnussen touched me before, tugging gently. It’s warm and dry, nothing at all like the cold slimy dampness of Magnussen’s hands.

“You need to move down a bit, Sherlock,” John says, so I do. He puts one hand on my thigh and dips the fingers of his other hand into the jelly, and it’s like I’ve slammed back into my body at speed. I am suddenly aware of the texture of Mycroft’s waistcoat against my back, of the gentle touch of John’s hand on my thigh and there, _there_ , John’s fingers parting my buttocks. “Relax a bit for me, okay?” John asks, and I try, I really do, but my entire body is stiff as a board, and my body fights the intrusion. He stops, and rubs gentle circles around my anus. His other hand has migrated to my belly, and he’s stroking me gently, like I’m a cat or a skittish horse.

One or both things work, because I’m finally able to force my body to relax, and the next time, the tip of his finger pops in easily.

“Oh, Christ,” I choke out. Mycroft has his arms around my torso and I grip his wrists as hard as I can, I close my eyes and turn my head away, and John continues his ministrations. He moves that one finger in and out, and it feels huge and intrusive, until he adds a second finger and more jelly, and I whimper in the back of my throat because _oh god no, oh no no no no_ my stupid transport’s got its wires crossed and I can feel my penis twitching against my thigh. It’s just an automatic reaction, just the transport being confused, because all it understands is that this is John, John’s hands on me, _in_ me, and I’ve wanted it for so long. I am still ashamed.

“Shh, Sherlock,” Mycroft murmurs into my hair. “Don’t worry about it.”

John doesn’t say anything, but I hear Magnussen chuckle softly, and there’s a hand on me. Magnussen’s clearly helped himself to the tub, because his hand is slick and smooth and he handles me confidently, stroking up and down my penis with his large, hard hand, and _this can’t possibly be happening_ because I can feel myself getting fully, actually hard. John makes a choked sound in his throat and adds a third finger, and it hurts a little, but my body doesn’t care about that anymore. It wants, it _wants_ , and the want and the fear and the disgust are a ball in my stomach, in my throat, and I’m choking on it.

I’m making a strange, high whining sound in the back of my throat, and I can’t catch my breath, just little sips through my closing throat, and Mycroft is shouting in my ear.

“Stop!” he yells, and I whimper and wince away. “Stop, he’s panicking, you need to slow down. Sherlock look at me, open your eyes, brother mine, and look up at me,” and when I open my eyes he’s somehow bent so that all I can see is his face, upside down, wide, scared blue eyes. It reminds me of the time I was seven and I nearly drowned, Mycroft’s scared eyes, and I make an effort to take deeper breaths, filling my lungs, and the darkness recedes. There are no hands on me now but Mycroft’s, tangled around my own. “There we are,” he murmurs, so quietly that I’m sure that nobody else can hear, and smiles at me. “There we are. Breathe with me, brother mine.” We breathe together for a time.

“Well? Is your little tantrum over?” Magnussen asks from somewhere beyond Mycroft.

I nod hesitantly, and unstick my lips.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “You can…you can go on,” I tell John.

“Sherlock…” he says.

“Please,” I say, and in the moment I despise him for making me ask, but he does do it, and I’ve never been able to hate John for very long. Magnussen doesn’t touch me again, but I can feel his cold avaricious eyes moving on my body as I shake under John’s touch, and eventually grunts, and John freezes.

“He’s ready,” Magnussen says, and John moves away to sit beside me. His hand is still on my stomach, and I’m grateful for it, as grateful as I am for Mycroft, who is sheltering me so that I don’t have to see. Of course, that was too good to last. “Sit up straight, Mycroft, I want to see his face,” Magnussen snaps. His urbane, affable air is beginning to crack, and there is more of the monster visible now.

Mycroft’s eyes close and his face is a perfect picture of despair, and then he moves to sit up and there’s nothing to look at but the bright, white ceiling of Magnussen’s bedroom. My body is still aroused, wanting and aching, my cock hard and hot and my arse empty, but I stare at nothing and ignore all that. My transport has betrayed me, but my mind is still my own, and I am not here. I am not here.

Magnussen puts my legs over his shoulder and leans in, and I can feel the head of him rub against the entrance to my body. He pushes forward and it- _oh god, it hurts, it hurts_ I’m being split open, I am breaking in half.

I’m only vaguely aware of my body arcing off the bed, of my hands flying wild until Mycroft and John capture them, one each, because Magnussen isn’t stopping. He’s pushing himself into me and I’m trying to get away, caught up in animal panic, because this hurts too much to bear, but Mycroft is behind me and with my knees hooked over Magnussen’s still-clothed shoulders there’s nowhere for me to go. I can do nothing but kick my feet and try to twist away from the pain, but there’s nowhere to go. I half-hear myself beginning to cry, sobbing and pleading _please no please stop, please please Mikey help me John please please._

“Stop it, just stop it,” John cries, and it sounds like it’s coming from far away, from somewhere beyond the terrible pain that roars over me like a tide, “Can’t you see you’re hurting him?”

Magnussen laughs but doesn’t stop moving.

“That is rather the idea, Doctor Watson,” he says, and his hips are nestled against my buttocks now and I am filled with him. He will leave parts of himself inside me, and I will never be clean again, but at least the worst is over now.

The worst is not over.

He pulls back, and that hurts even more, and thrusts back in, and that hurts more yet. Every movement hurts more than the last and I find myself holding onto Mycroft’s hands like a woman in labour, keening my pain through my gritted teeth. The worst of it all is that I am still aroused, because Magnussen’s cock is slamming into my prostate like a battering ram, and there is a sick coil of want in my belly, twisting around the pain and transmuting it, making it sharp-edged and red-black.

I know that my body will adjust soon, and then the pain will fade and there will be just the want left, and I am terrified. I can already feel it beginning, my body adapting to the intrusion. Already it hurts less, and I am still letting out little punched sounds on every thrust but I no longer feel as though I am breaking open. Maybe that’s the worst of it all, that the treacherous transport will soon begin to enjoy this, no matter how much I don’t want it to be happening.

Or maybe the worst of it all is the way his movements shove my limp body to and fro, and the way I can feel Mycroft getting hard behind me. When I look up at him his face is devastated, and there are tears in his eyes – when was the last time I saw Mycroft cry? _Definitely enjoying it_ , I’d joked so many months ago. It isn’t a joke now, and I know Mycroft isn’t enjoying it at all. I feel almost as though I’ve betrayed him somehow, as though the fact that it’s my body, however unwilling, that’s rubbing on his, makes me as guilty as Magnussen. I squeeze his hands in mine and meet his eyes.

 _I don’t blame you for this_ , I say, and his grip on my fingers firms slightly and I can read his gratitude in his eyes.

Magnussen goes still against my legs. I wonder if this has finally come to an end, but no. He chuckles slightly and rests his hand on my thigh. Tracing cold damp circles on my skin, a slime-trail of pollution that I will never be rid of.

“Oh dear,” he says, and when I make myself look at him he’s smiling like the edge of a knife. “I see I have been remiss in my hospitality. After all, Mister Holmes, it wouldn’t be fair of me to keep you all to myself, would it?”

I don’t understand what he’s getting at. I am in pain and naked and filled with shame and filth, and now even my brain is deserting me, because he has a meaning and I can’t parse it. I look to John for help, but John is staring at Magnussen with an expression of hatred like nothing I’ve seen before.

“I don’t…I don’t understand,” I manage. My voice is a ruin, have I been screaming?

“You have a mouth, don’t you? I think we need to make use of it, Mister Holmes,” he says. He smiles again. “I think I’ll let you choose. Who would you rather, your brother, or Doctor Watson?”

 _No_. I look at John, and he flinches from my gaze. John would not be able to bear it. _I_ would not be able to bear it. The thought of it, of my mouth on John in this place, in this context, is viscerally horrifying, all my foolish pining and silly-schoolboy fantasies, my heart’s dearest wish turned to shit and ashes in my hand. It would break me. I look up at Mycroft instead, and his eyes close in a nod.

“Mycroft,” I say. “I’ll do Mycroft.”

Magnussen slaps my thigh playfully, hard enough to bruise, and laughs and pulls out abruptly, making me whimper. It burns, but some deeply-loathed part of the transport is protesting the sudden emptiness.

“Go on, then,” he says. “Turn over. On your knees, there’s a good boy.”

I try, but I’m…I am suddenly exhausted. I don’t think I’ve properly stopped shaking since all this started. I manage to get onto my side, but then the burning in my arse catches up to me and I’m frozen, whimpering, terrified to move again lest that lancing agony recurs. I do, though, because if I can just get through this I can…I can survive. Endure the unendurable, as grand-mere said, and I’ll be invincible. Or broken, of course. That seems like the more likely option, somehow.

I catch John’s eyes as I turn over. He’s gone away inside his head somewhere, his hands clenched in tight fists on his thighs, and I envy him desperately, because I don’t want to be here either.

“Mycroft, can you…” Mycroft doesn’t make me finish the question, just silently folds his legs under him until he’s sitting on his feet, and unbuttons his trousers. I haven’t seen Mycroft’s penis since we were children together, but it looks almost familiar nonetheless, long and thin like Mycroft himself. He’s hard and flushed still from before, from the stimulation of my body moving against that part of him. I meet my brother’s eyes, and then I lower my head and take him in my mouth.

He gasps. It’s different from earlier, with Magnussen. Mycroft hates this as much as I do, and it helps even as it makes it worse, because I don’t want to be doing this and Mycroft doesn’t want it either, and at least we want the same thing even as we know we can’t have it. So I move my head, the way Magnussen did earlier but more gently, and I curl my arms around Mycroft’s hips. I start to go away again. My transport is aching and filled with want, but I’m not here. I am…somewhere else. Some _when_ else, and I am not doing this to Mycroft.

There’s movement behind me and then Magnussen is pushing back into me again, and he’s fucking me again, brutally hard, and I’m forced to put my hands on Mycroft’s legs to keep from choking as Magnussen shoves me to and fro. I can hear him above me, making aborted, choked-off moans, and I remember that Mycroft is only a little more experienced at this than I am. He’s hard in my mouth, but his hands are gentle on my shoulder and the back of my head, carding through my sweaty hair with infinite tenderness.

“Oh, God,” he breathes as the tip of him goes into my throat on a particularly hard thrust from Magnussen, and his thighs quake beneath my hands as he fights to keep still. I’m concentrating hard on not choking, and it’s almost enough to take my mind off of Magnussen, and what he’s doing, except that he’s found the perfect angle to stroke my prostate again, and the sick wanting feeling is back in full force, coiling and twisting in my belly. I hate it. I’ve always been able to will away arousal, but it seems it’s a different animal when someone is actually touching me this way.

“Do you know,” Magnussen says, ever so slightly breathless, over the sound of his body invading mine, the slap of flesh on flesh, and my desperate attempts to keep breathing, “I think you could come from this, Mister Holmes. Or maybe you need some help, what do you think?”

I can’t respond, of course, and he laughs and slaps my buttock painfully hard and fucks me even harder, until I’m whimpering in pain again and unable to breathe, and then he groans and presses in as deeply as he can go, and I can _feel_ him coming inside me, filling me with his loathsome essence. He pulls out almost immediately, making me wince, and I stop what I’m doing to Mycroft, absurdly hopeful that maybe it’s all over now. I hide my face against his leg and pant open-mouthed for air, my entire body shuddering so hard it must be visible to anyone who cares to look, and Mycroft puts his hand in my hair protectively. We’re both shaking.

“Oh, dear,” Magnussen says thoughtfully. “It seems I rather miscalculated my stamina. I was so hoping to finish you off first. Doctor Watson, go ahead and finish him, won’t you?”

I can feel John’s shock as he stiffens.

“Please,” I say, but I don’t lift my head because I know what the answer will be. “Please, you’ve had your fun. Can’t we just…go?” I’m not above begging, not if it will spare John, and it’s not as though my motives are entirely unselfish either. I don’t want that, don’t want to come undone in front of this man.

“No, I rather think I want to see you orgasm, Mister Holmes,” Magnussen says. “Doctor Watson? I think you’ll find he’s nice and wet, if you want to fuck him.”

“Fuck you,” John says. His voice is flat, dead. There’s nothing of him in there. I steal a glance and sigh gratefully – John isn’t hard. I don’t think I could have forgiven him if he was, and I know it’s not fair, it’s just biology, but…still.

“Your hands, then,” Magnussen says, and there’s something almost like humour in his voice. “Come on, Doctor Watson, I don’t have all night, after all! And Mister Holmes, you’ll need to finish your brother before you go as well, so get moving, would you?”

“John,” Mycroft says, and his voice is ragged, exhausted. “Please. Just…help him. Please.”

John takes a deep breath, and I can see his posture change as he comes back to himself. _I’m sorry, John,_ I think. _I wish you could have stayed gone, too._ But if wishes were horses, and John bends to meet my eyes, puts his hand on the side of my face, and nods gravely.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He plants a kiss on my shoulder blade and I shiver. “Go on, Sherlock, I’ll take care of you.” I put my mouth back on Mycroft, who cries out brokenly, and John takes my aching penis in his hand. It won’t take long, the transport is desperate by now and Mycroft is gently guiding my head in a fast, shallow rhythm as I stroke him with my tongue. Mycroft makes a choked, desperate sound and starts to come, and John’s other hand slips inside me and finds my prostate with a doctor’s precision, and the wanting coil snaps and I shatter into pieces between his hands and Mycroft’s cock.

When I can breathe again, I’m lying on my side, staring into space. John is petting my sides again, stroking me like a cat, and I’ve got my head in Mycroft’s lap, my brother’s hands gentle in my hair. I seem to have survived, after all.

“Lovely,” Magnussen says, and I shudder at the sound of his voice, but he seems to be coming from far, far away, because my brain is coming online, quite possibly for the first time since we saw the ‘Appledore Vaults’ and I’ve just realised something. “Simply lovely.”

Mycroft must sense the sudden tension, because he catches my eye, and then follows my glance to the camera. The camera I hadn’t been in any condition to notice when we came in. The camera none of us had seen until this moment, and I can’t believe how clever Magnussen has been. And how stupid we’ve been, all three of us, because if he could bring the world down around our ears with rumours and innuendo, what could he do with actual video evidence of what I have just done to my brother?

I look at John, who has followed Mycroft’s eyes and mine to the camera, and is frowning. I can hear Magnussen move around, and then he comes around in front of the bed and smirks down at me. He’s fully dressed, his trousers done back up, and the only sign of what he’s done to me is a sheen of sweat on his brow. It seems unfair, somehow – not that anything about this has been fair – that he looks like that and I am a ruin, used up and tossed aside, barely able to move.

“You were splendid, Mister Holmes,” he says, and touches his hand to my face, making me flinch away. “I think we should do this again.”

“I think not,” Mycroft says, and his voice is flat and cold as a striking snake, and I am reminded immediately that my brother is the most dangerous man in the world. “Tell me, Magnussen. Were you planning to tell us you’d filmed this encounter immediately, or were you waiting until you’d built up a larger collection?”

Magnussen throws back his head and laughs. It crawls over my skin as though he were still touching me, and I cringe. I can still feel him on my skin, inside me, trickling sluggishly out of me. I’m filthy and covered in sweat and shaking, and I have never hated another human being as much as I hate him.

“Oh, Mycroft, you really are rather good, aren’t you? Of course, you were quite distracted when you came in, but you saw the camera much more quickly than I expected.”

“I didn’t see it,” Mycroft says, “Sherlock did.” There’s a kind of brutal satisfaction in his voice, _you may have touched his body,_ he’s saying, _but you can’t touch Sherlock’s mind_.

“Then of course, you know that you have no choice now, but to submit to me. Whenever I want, in whatever way I want,” Magnussen says, and his voice is almost gentle, but there’s something still niggling at me, something out of place, and then I realise. He’s relaxed now, and he wasn’t before. What’s changed, what’s different now? Was it just that he didn’t know whether I would do it or not? What _what what what_ and the realization hits me like a freight train, like fireworks behind my eyes, and my flailing hand catches the sleeve of John’s shirt and pulls him in close.

He knows my deduction face, knows it well, and comes in close, until the curve of his ear is against my lips.

“What’s he saying?” Magnussen demands.

“He hasn’t said anything yet, for God’s sakes,” John snaps. “Could you just…give us a moment? Sherlock, what’s wrong? Do you hurt anywhere?”

Thank God for clever doctors.

“There are no backups,” I breathe into his ear. “He doesn’t trust anyone. He didn’t have any dead-man’s switches.” And there it is, there’s what’s been bothering me the whole time, the thing I couldn’t put my finger on, _Magnussen doesn’t trust anyone._ He never trusts anyone with the blackmail information, why didn’t I remember this, why didn’t I know? I should have- oh. It was all tied up, all of a parcel with the thing in the hospital that I’d apparently deleted or blocked out until it came back to me tonight-

It’s as though my words are John’s on-switch, as though I’ve taken him off a leash, and he launches himself off the bed with a howl. A moment later he’s got Magnussen down on the ground, and he’s holding him down with one hand while the other drives down into Magnussen’s bleeding face with metronome precision, again and again and again. When Magnussen tries to block a blow with his hand, John simply smashes it back into his face. His nose, his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw, John pulps them with the precision of a doctor, and I find myself clenching the fabric of Mycroft’s trousers in a white-knuckle grip. I’m terrified, and I don’t know why. Except I _do_ know why. John is angry, so very angry, and if he’s this angry with Magnussen for winning, how angry is he at me for losing? And worse, for dragging him into it?

“John. John!” Mycroft cries, and John glares at him over his shoulder.

“What is it, Mycroft?”

“You’re scaring Sherlock, John,” Mycroft says, and John freezes. I can feel him looking at me, where I’m lying on my side with my head in Mycroft’s lap, but I can’t quite bring myself to meet his eyes. I’m afraid of what I will see there, and so I keep my eyes on the mewling ruin that was once Charles Augustus Magnussen.

John breathes out slowly.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, I’ll stop. Right after this,” he says, and gets to his feet. Despite myself, I flinch as John brings his heel down, stomping it viciously into Magnussen’s throat. John watches in silence as Magnussen arcs and struggles, clawing at his ruined throat, and then he turns to me and his face smooths out as he goes to his knees in front of me. He reaches out to touch my face and I cringe back against Mycroft, my eyes closing involuntarily, my hands fluttering up between us like panicked birds. “Sherlock,” he says, and his voice is ever so gentle. “Sherlock, could you look at me, please?”

He doesn’t say anything after that, just waits in silence until I can overrule the transport enough to look at him. He’s sitting on his knees in front of me, his face open and relaxed, but his hands are clenched.

“You’re angry,” I observe, and he nods. Well. At least he’s not trying to deny it.

“I am, yes. I’m pretty sure that I’ve never been this angry in my life, Sherlock, and if I could stop Magnussen from dying now – he’s almost certainly going to die without a lot more care than we can give him – I’d probably do it, just so that I could nurse him back to health and kill him _again_ for ever laying a finger on you. But I am not, whatever you’re thinking, angry with you. Okay?”

“But it’s my fault,” I offer. “I thought I could beat him, but he tricked me.”

John appears to be giving this due consideration. While he’s thinking, my eyes flick to Magnussen. His desperate clawing has slowed, and his legs and arms are beginning to seize. There’s a moment when I remember the jewelled edges of everything as my body starved of oxygen with Magnussen’s cock in my throat, and I am terribly, fiercely grateful to John for killing him.

“That’s true, he did trick you,” John says. “He also tricked Mycroft, though. Are you angry at Mycroft for what Magnussen did?” I shake my head. “Are you angry at _me_?” I shake my head again. “Then why would I be angry at you, Sherlock?” I know what he’s doing – leading me through this like a child, but that doesn’t stop it being effective. I can feel my heartrate slowing as he talks, gentling me. Eventually the fear (which I knew was irrational anyway, but that doesn’t help as much as you’d think) fades enough that I can reach out and put my hand on John’s shoulder. He gives me a little nod and a smile, and I find a little smile to give him in return.

 “Brother mine, can you move?” Mycroft asks gently.

I swing my legs off the bed, yelp at the sudden pain, and stagger as my legs refuse to support me, but Mycroft and John are there, holding me up with their hands under my elbows until I find my feet. My mind is crystal-clear now, and my emotions are strangely muffled – I can feel them, feel the breakdown bearing down upon me like a wave, but I can’t _feel_ them. I can work with that, and I do. I can’t pace while I’m thinking like I usually do, but I can stand, at least, and check the camera. It’s a simple enough thing, recording onto a tablet hidden behind a portrait and nowhere else. That’s one worry out of the way, at least. I keep the tablet in my hand, and make sure to wipe the camera, just in case.

I direct Mycroft to change the sheets on Magnussen’s bed, and send John to fetch my coat and shoes, even my tattered clothes, for what they’re worth. They return almost simultaneously, and John helps Mycroft put the clean sheets on while I think. Together, they heave Magnussen onto his bed. He’s not dead yet, I don’t think, but I don’t want to be any closer to him than I need to, and I don’t bother to check. Either way, he won’t live long.

“I’m going to call in a team,” Mycroft says as John helps me put on my coat over my naked body. I wish there was something else, but my clothes are ruined down to the socks I was wearing, and the only alternative is something of Magnussen’s. The idea of it, of letting clothes that touched his skin touch mine, is revolting.

“We should burn the place,” John says, and starts tearing the soiled sheet into strips. There’s blood on it, little smears and spatters, mixed in among the other stains. John stares at it, then looks at me. I look away. “Your team would need days to clean it all up, and even then they’d miss something,” John continues smoothly.

“John’s right,” I say. “A fire won’t destroy all the evidence, but it will confuse the issue, especially if you make sure some of your minions are on the investigation. Can you do that, Mycroft?”

Mycroft nods, his fingertips pinching the bridge of his nose. Mycroft doesn’t have a mind palace. It’s more like a mind city, but from what I understand its elements are always in motion. Once, he explained it as being like cells in the bloodstream. I know he’s playing out the scenario in his head, considering alternatives.

John glances at me and I shake my head, and we wait for Mycroft to run through the probabilities. He’s brilliant at this, as long as there isn’t any immediate pressure, as long as he can put it in the abstract.

“Yes,” he says. “Burn the building. Start with the bed. You need to destroy his body as completely as possible, as well as the DNA evidence on the sheets. Cigarette to start the fire – he’ll have fallen asleep smoking in bed, John get an ashtray.” His eyes are far away and he snaps instructions in the flat voice he uses when he’s gone deep into his own mind. John ends up doing most of the work, wiping down any surfaces that could retain fingerprints after a fire, fetching a cigarette (three cigarettes, handing one each to me and Mycroft with a meaningful look that says _don’t get used to this_ ) while I stand carefully still and try not to move too much. The cigarette is heavenly, although the smoke is not kind to my abraded throat.

“We’ll need a car,” I say eventually. “Steal one, I suppose.”

“We’ll have to,” Mycroft says grimly. “Fortunately, Magnussen has at least one car that is not officially registered anywhere.”

“Mycroft, I’ll need your lighter,” I say.

“Sherlock, you can’t mean to do it yourself!”

“What?” I ask. “Of course, I’m going to set the fire, Mycroft!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” John says. “You can barely walk. Look, you go with Mycroft to pick out a car, and I’ll meet you out front after I start the fire, okay?”

Damn it. He’s right. I’m not going to be running anywhere, not with the transport in the state it’s in. I’m already woozy and my legs are shaking, and when Mycroft comes up beside me I find myself leaning on him almost immediately. I look up at him, and he knows what I need. Together, we walk up to the body in the bed. My aim has always been very good, and the wad of spittle hits him right in his cooling, dead face. Mycroft hands the lighter and the remaining cigarette to John, who is making a little campfire from the shredded remains of the sheets that had been on the bed. He looks up at me and there’s almost a smile on his face, and then he looks back at his work as Mycroft helps me through the door.

It’s almost laughably simple after that. Magnussen had sent his security away (Mycroft needs to dispose of them as soon as he can) and we’re not challenged as we enter the garage, where Mycroft hauls me straight to a magnificent black sedan. He leaves me leaning against the car while he scurries for the keys.

It’s terrifying. The garage is vast, and empty, and dark, and I am shaking in my coat and nothing else, concrete biting into my bare feet. Mycroft is gone for an age, and by the time he returns I am nearly hyperventilating, all my efforts on shoring up the walls keeping me from overwhelming myself with emotion. He says nothing, just wraps his arms around me and tucks my face into his neck like a child. Despite everything, he still smells like home to me, and it’s immediately calming. There’s even a trace of John-smell on him, most likely from when Mycroft was restraining him in the living room, and I drink in the comfort of it greedily.

“I’m okay now,” I eventually say, and Mycroft releases me with a shuddering breath and puts me in the back of the car. Normally, I hate it when Mycroft drives (because he drives like _Mrs Hudson_ , and I’m always afraid that I’m going to throw up, or die, or both) but in this case…well, in this case I’m perfectly willing to take advantage of Mycroft’s frustrated desire to be a race car driver. He peels out of the garage with a squeal of tyres, and by the time we reach the door John is hurtling out of it, my clothes and shoes in his hands. He falls into the back seat with me and Mycroft has the car in motion before the door even closes, throwing me against John as the car fishtails.

John, to my surprise, wraps one arm around me and clutches me close. Past his profile I can see the flickering, greedy flames begin to devour Appledore and its master, and I smile to myself.

A little later, John will guide me to lie down with my head in his lap as Mycroft drives like demons are chasing us, and I’ll fall into exhausted sleep with John’s hand petting my hair, reminding me that I am not alone.


End file.
